This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Teal Haviland
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from this book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of Teal Haviland. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights. Created in the United States of America by Teal Haviland, 2017. For information address at [email protected]
The author is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the author.
To all those who’ve had their heart broken so badly that they feel like it’s beyond repair . . .
. . . I feel ya.
Love again, anyway, even if you’re afraid to. Especially, if you’re afraid to.
I promise it’s worth it.
CHAPTER ONE
The aromas of coffee and Danishes and eggs, and the sounds of laughter and conversations and music and orders being relayed to baristas, are welcome greetings this morning as I walk into The Stomping Grounds. It’s the name the owner, Seth, came up with. He thought he was being clever when deciding what to call his neighborhood coffee shop/wine bar. And, I have to admit, the writer in me agrees . . . it is clever.
The name and cozy atmosphere made it an immediate neighborhood hit a decade ago, and I’ve heard that its popularity has never waned and, in fact, has grown to where now, even people from outside this neighborhood have decided to make it their adoptive stomping gounds. That’s what Danni, one of the regulars from when I came here years earlier and that had every guy back then wrapped around her finger, had said when I ran into her last weekend and I told her I was thinking of starting to come back to it as my office. I wondered then when we were talking if she was still breaking all the boys’ hearts, especially since her ring finger was absent of proclaiming a commitment to anyone. She said The Grounds’—the shortened name we gave it—continued popularity made getting here early on the weekends a must if I had any intention of getting a comfy spot to plant myself for a while. So that’s exactly what I’ve done . . . gotten here early so I can spend hours writing, people watching, and general eaves—dropping. All, of course, for gaining writing fodder.
I scan the room, wondering if anything’s changed. It has, after all, been over eight years since the last time I darkened its doorway. I smile, partially because it appears to be mostly the same—with two large conversation pits with enough seating for twelve people in each, several oversized and worn leather couches, chairs with ottomans, and tables for two to six people that were peppered around the rest of the area—and partially because I’m out of the deep chill of the early morning hours. This late in the fall, even in the South, the cold never seems to want to let go of the hold it has during the evenings, and it battles the sun that’s trying to do its best to warm the air. But, today is overcast and breezy, and the cold is going to win.
I look a little closer as I step further in and get out of the way of the entry, noting that even the art on the walls, paintings of feet stomping grapes to make wine and coffee cups and beans, were exactly as I remembered.
“I guess Seth isn’t much for change,” I say to myself as I slowly walk in to see if my old, favorite spot is available. I let out a disappointed sigh as I see a young couple already snuggled into an oversized chair with their feet up on the ottoman that I was hoping to have my own feet propped up on this morning.
Oh well . . . I’ll sit close so I can see when they get up. Then, I’ll get it.
I walk to a table near the, now giggling, couple and begrudgingly pull out the chair and sit. I watch them longer than I should and before I realize it, the young woman glances over at me and we lock eyes. She doesn’t seem to be embarrassed as she holds my gaze longer than is comfortable and then smiles coyly before she leans toward the guy and kisses him, glancing at me from time to time to see if I’m still watching.
I smile because she probably thinks I’m jealous, or a voyeur and I am enjoying the show, and I wonder if she’d be disappointed if she found out I was just thinking of using her as the inspiration for a character in a book that’s set in a brothel . . . in which said character falls in love with one of her customers that leads her on, making her believe that he is in love with her so she falls in love with him and then the truth comes out her heart is crushed and she decides to become a nun in a mountain nunnery in the middle of nowhere. Then, my smile fades and I look away because . . . that’s all a lie and the truth is . . . no, not that I’m a voyeur . . . but that I am jealous. I remember how it feels to have a man look at me the way he is at her, and how it feels to look at a man with the same desire and adoration.
“That was also eight years ago,” I remind myself, and begin to distract my lonely thoughts by taking in more of The Grounds. A large fireplace, open on all sides, is right in the middle of the room and already crackling with fire, and deep−colored walls and dark−stained, wood floors all combine to work their magic to calm me just as they always have. A sigh escapes me as I realize that, regardless of the punch in the gut that the truth of me being jealous just inflicted on me, I immediately feel at ease with my decision to come here. Especially since now that I’ve taken in all the faces around me I realize that, as I had hoped, I recognize no one.
“Thank God,” I mutter to myself.
I take a notebook out of my messenger bag and leave it behind as a claim on my table and go to the counter to order my coffee. I’ve missed this place, but hadn’t dared to risk running into him here—knowing he could be with her. My friends have scolded me numerous times, saying that I shouldn’t let him run me out of a place that I’d introduced him to. It was, as they would say, mine. But . . . so was he until she came along.
“Hi,” the smiling, young barista says.
“Good morning,” I say to him as I realize that the last time I was here I would have only been a couple of years older than he. As of last night, though, I’m officially out of my twenties, and that milestone being reached is exactly why I decided to come back to my place. In the years since I was last here, I’d become a wife, a mother, an ex−wife, and an author. “Large caramel macchiato, please, with extra caramel.”
“Anything else?”
“No, thank you,” I say, and swipe my card to pay.
Now that I’m thirty, I’m done with running from the wounds I have from that time—wounds that have never truly healed. Now . . . I finally move on with my life.
I move aside for the next person to place their order and to wait for my coffee, but the reminder of my youthier−youth handed me a tall card holder with a number on it. When I look at him I must have been wearing my puzzlement all over my face.
“Just place this on your table. Someone will bring your drink to you.”
“Oh. Okay.” I take the card holder and walk back to my table, purposely taking the long route so I can walk past the snuggly−couple to see if I can overhear anything juicy because, even though the book about the brothel isn’t real, my desire to use interesting people and situations for story fodder certainly is. On my way back, though, I become distracted as I pass one of the conversation pits, only it’s the exact one I was sitting in with my friends the last time I was here. “Table service,” I say to distract
my thoughts away from the memory. Or, more importantly, the memory about what happened later that evening. “That’s one thing that’s new.”
Once I’m settled back at my table I pull out my laptop and plug it into the socket mounted to the underside of the tabletop. It’s just one of the things I have always loved about this place—sockets are everywhere. Before I’m able to power up my computer, though, I look up and see a tall, broad−shouldered man with an even broader smile walking toward me, and then I feel a smile spreading across my own face.
“Jo! How are you?” Seth says as he gets closer.
“Seth! Hi!” I say as I stand and meet him for a hug. I’d forgotten how much his smile lights up the room. He was a huge part of the reason we all loved being here—Seth’s personality makes The Stomping Grounds even more cozy and welcoming than the décor, furniture, and aromas do. When I step back, though, and really get a good look at him, I’m a little stunned.
“Wow,” I say, “look at you.”
CHAPTER TWO
“What?” he says as he hands me my coffee and then glances down at himself. “Do I have whipped cream on me, or something?”
I can’t help but laugh. “No, silly,” I say as our eyes meet, again, “you just look . . . well . . .” I continue, but I’m not sure how to put my thoughts into words without embarrassing him, me, or both of us. Seth had always been attractive but, maybe because he was twenty−eight and I was only twenty when he first opened The Stomping Grounds, he seemed far too old for me. The first reason could be why I’m now looking at him through different eyes, but, maybe the last decade has just been really good to him, because . . . wow . . .
Seth chuckles. “I look . . . well?”
“Umm, yeah, but that’s not what I mean.”
“What do you mean, then?”
I calm myself, realizing that I’m getting flustered for no good reason and I need to act like a grown woman instead of like the giggling−female half of the mushy couple sitting in my chair. “I just mean you look really great, Seth. It’s good to see you.”
“Thank you. You look pretty great, yourself.”
Neither Seth nor I say anything for a long moment but, surprisingly, it doesn’t feel uncomfortable. Instead, it feels like this place, like Seth, himself is . . . cozy, somehow.
“Would you like to sit?” I ask, as I sit again.
“Sure, I’d love to.”
Seth sits and I can’t seem to take my eyes off of him, and I find I’m kicking myself for not coming back to The Grounds sooner.
“So,” he says, “it’s been a long time. Like . . . seven or eight years, right?”
“Eight years and one day, to be exact. The last time I was here it was my twenty−second birthday.”
“Then you had a birthday yesterday. Happy birthday, Jo.”
“Thank you. Thirty. It was a big one.”
“That’s right . . . thirty,” he says with a one−sided smile and a glint of mischievousness in his eyes. It causes my own smile grow again and heat to rise in my cheeks.
I can’t believe Seth’s making me blush with just a look in his eyes and a flirty smile. More so . . . I can’t believe he seems to be flirting with me, at all. Our friendship before had always just been a casual, acquaintance type of friendship. But, then again, I was always with him before. I hadn’t stepped through the door of The Grounds without him since the first two months I came here. The next two years after that, it was always him and me . . . always. Until now.
“So,” I say to try to get my thoughts steered away from both him, our break−up, and the still−broken heart I carry from it, and divert it toward Seth’s seeming flirtiness, “The Grounds seems to be doing fantastic, still.”
“Yeah,” he says with pride as he glances around. “It is. I’m blessed, and very lucky.”
“Blessed, I won’t argue with, but . . . lucky . . . you’ve never needed luck. Not with your personality. You make people feel welcomed, and that’s why they keep coming back.”
“Well, I don’t know about that, but thank you for saying it. Tell me, where have you been all these years. You were here so regularly, and then . . . just gone. Tell me it was something really cool, like you had to be put into the Witness Protection program because you discovered who really shot Kennedy, or something.”
“Not hardly,” I say through laughter. “I just needed to stay away, and then I got married and had my son,” I say and, maybe it’s my imagination, but Seth didn’t seem to not like it much when I mentioned getting married. “Being a wife and mother kept me pretty busy, and then I started writing.”
“Oh yeah? What do you write?”
“Urban fantasy, mostly. But I dabble in a couple of other genres, too.”
“Do you have anything published?” His smile broadens again, seemingly in expectation of my answer. “I bet you do. I’d lay all my money on it.”
“Wow. Such confidence in someone you barely knew and haven’t seen in years.”
“Well . . . I also bet that I knew you better than you think.” He pauses and sits back and I can tell now that the last eight years has, indeed, been very good to him. That, and he likes going to the gym, apparently. “Your husband must be very proud of you.”
“Ex—husband, now, and if he was proud of me, he never acted like it.”
And, just like that, his eyes seem to sparkle, again. Surely it’s just my imagination, though.
“Well, that makes him an idiot.”
“If you say so.”
Seth just smiled and nodded.
“How about you?” I ask, hoping that I don’t sound too hopeful that I get the answer from this next question that I find myself wanting and, also, wondering how I got to the place of wanting this particular answer in just a few minutes of talking with him. “Are you married?”
Seth laughs softly and looks down as he starts wrapping the string from his apron around his finger. “Nah . . . never found a woman who would put up with me being married already to this place.”
“Your love for it shows, Seth. You should be proud of what you’ve accomplished and any woman you’ve had in your life should have been be proud of you, and it, too.”
“Aww . . . shucks, ma’am,” he says in his most southern−charm way. “Thanks.” Seth looks up at me, more serious, now. “You stopped coming because you and Ben broke up, didn’t you?”
I sit and stare at him, not really shocked that he knew the real reason, but also not wanting to have to admit to Seth that, indeed, I’d let him keep me from coming back for so long. It’s embarrassing, really, to have been so weak. Especially when I’m usually such a strong woman. Little ever gets me down or in my way, except Ben—he did.
Seeming to sense how uncomfortable his directness made me, Seth continues. “I hated it when you stopped coming in. A lot of your friends did. You know . . . it never felt the same without you here. When Ben stopped coming in about a year later, no one seemed to really notice, but . . . you . . . Jo, you’ve always been something special. Everyone knew it. Everyone missed you.”
I laugh. “Not everyone, apparently.”
“I assume you’re referring to Ben. If I’m right, and from what I heard back then, he didn’t know how lucky he was to have you.”
“Maybe I was the lucky one and he figured that out,” I say without looking at Seth and trace the edge of the lid to my coffee cup, instead, then slowly bring it to my lips to take a drink. It’s just as good as I remembered. I smile slightly as I put it back down on the table and look up at Seth. His eyes look a little sad, now. “It’s still the best cup of coffee I’ve ever had, Seth. You need to franchise The Grounds out and become a millionaire.”
“Seriously, Jo,” he says as he leans forward again and puts his arms on the table, then pts one of his hands on mine, “he didn’t−”
“Hey, Seth,” the barista I ordered my coffee from says to him, snapping us both out of the bubble we seemed to have put ourselves in. I glance over to the snuggly−couple a
nd the girl is watching me, now, but isn’t smiling. I wonder if maybe she sees something that she’s jealous of, but I’m not even sure what’s happening between me and Seth. How could she? “I’m sorry to interrupt, but we need you behind the counter. We’re getting slammed.”
“Oh! Sure,” he says to the barista, then to me, “Can I come back to talk more? I’d love to continue catching up.”
“Of course.” I watch as he smiles and nods, then gets up to walk with the barista back to the counter. When he gets there, he turns and glances at me and smiles before he gives his attention to the next customer in line and I wonder if he did it just to see if I was still watching him.
CHAPTER THREE
I don’t know if it’s the battle going on in my mind between the me that wants to write, and the me that’s confused by what just happened between Seth and me, but the morning is passing quickly, even though outside it never seems to get lighter than that of a just−breaking dawn. The sky is still thickly overcast and the October winds that I’ve always loved so much pull leaves from their homes and they become the wind’s unwanting dance partners. “Dancing away from the warmth they adore—that they need,” I say under my breath.
I notice a man that’s facing me at the next table looks up.
“I’m sorry?” he says.
“Oh,” I say, taking my earplugs out, “no, I’m sorry. I’m used to working by myself at home. I’m just thinking out loud.” I laugh and he smiles. “I need to remember I’m amongst other people . . . real, live people.” I laugh again, and his smile grows, but he returns to his reading, and I return to trying to either make sense of my thoughts about Seth, or force myself into writing to escape those thoughts.
Instead of either of those options, though, I find myself thinking about what Seth had said about how my ex−husband must be so proud of me for my writing, and how he never had seemed to be. He never even read anything I wrote, even though he said he’d read my first book when I finished it because he didn’t want to read it until it was done. In reality, he just never wanted to read it to begin with. It was a side of me he never really knew was there, though, at least not until the day I announced I was going to write a book.
That Yesterday Page 1
